An Imagined Affair
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: Carson reflects in The Grantham Arms on the night that war breaks out.
1. Chapter 1

**The title of this piece may confuse you as it seems to be an alarming misrepresentation of what it actually contains. It got its name from a song by Elbow, from which I got the idea. **

**This is another one of my war-has-broken-out-and-people-are-a-bit-mad ideas, but with a bit of a different spin, at the moment anyway. It doesn't need to be a oneshot if anyone has strong feelings on the matter.**

**Also, this is particularly written for CrazyMaryT who is a very faithful reviewer and seems to be veritably in love with Charles Carson.**

He had not been in a public house for years, not to have a drink at any rate; odd jaunts to the Grantham Arms weren't exactly in his job description. Yet here he was, perched on a stool at the bar of that very alehouse with a half empty glass of brandy in front of him.

Odd circumstances had brought him here to say the least. His Lordship had come downstairs to apologise to the staff for the problems and unpremeditated haste caused by the rather abrupt end to the garden party, when Thomas had taken occasion to announce well in their employer's earshot that he thought a trip en masse to The Grantham Arms was in order. Charles, appalled by the forwardness of his footman, had been about to issue a reprimand and decline his consent when his Lordship- looking weary- simply replied:

"Well, if Carson and Mrs Hughes consent to escorting you all..."

Charles was more than ready to refuse on the grounds that he was far too worn out to enforce any kind of order or decorum when he was cut across again. Elsie had previously been sitting silently in a chair at the edge of the servants' hall, but now she rose, picking up her hat from where it sat on the dresser and declaring flatly that she could murder a drink, before heading out of the room to find her coat. Such was the vehemence of her proclamation that it caused his Lordship to raise his eyebrows in her direction in something akin to admiration.

Upon their arrival at the pub, the young men had made it plain that they were in no need of a chaperone to help them find their way to some drink; and to be quite frank, Charles was in no mood to contest the matter. He was quite glad that they had left him alone, really. Anyway, there was little to worry about as the ladies didn't seem to have strayed far out from under Mrs Hughes' wing; most of them sat round a table at the edge of the room.

From where he sat, tucked quite neatly out of sight of most of the room, he could just see Elsie at the table. Determined not to spend the evening staring into his glass, he watched her, knowing that she probably couldn't see him. She had a far off look about her, gazing out of the window of the pub although it was black dark outside. He got the feeling that she wasn't listening to a word of what whoever was talking was saying. He could just about make out Miss O'Brien's mildly slurred tones over the rest of the noise in the room. Her hand nursed a similar glass to his. She made no movements nor did she speak; her silence was a doleful meditation, yet she looked rather alert next to her companions. Gwen- asleep, poor child- slumped a little against her shoulder, but she appeared to take it in her stride. The old beauty that she had been famous for in her youth was still there; he would always be able to see it, but at the moment he wished he couldn't. It resonated through her deathly pale skin; a vigilant entity in a room of dullness. But tinged as it was with sadness, it broke his heart.

In their youth, the other footmen had found it odd that he seemed not to be interested in girls like they were. He was hardly going to tell them that the reason was because he had found himself horribly in love with the head housemaid but couldn't bring himself to say it to her. So he pretended that he didn't want to be distracted from his career in service, and let whichever one of them wanted to pursue her that week get on with it. He could bear it because she would never allow any of them to do it for too long; she'd never had any problems asserting herself.

And he was willing to not pursue her himself to avoid being thrown back like the rest of them were. He was content just to go on as they were so at least _that_ would be preserved. At least they would still walk down the corridors laughing at one another in turn; at least she would still playfully box his ears when he came and stood next to her when she was on a step ladder and he was still as tall as her. He had loved her too much to give all of that up. And now that they were growing old together, he supposed he had to admit that that really was the case, he couldn't give up the way that they were now; the implicit understanding they had as equals.

He realised that he was now staring at her. Oh, to hell if he was, she was stupidly stupidly beautiful to him, more so now than ever before. Apart from having no interest in any other woman, he considered the likely possibility that he hadn't really looked at another one these twenty years. When they had been discussing Anna's relationship with Mr Bates, Elsie had said that it was no wonder, really, a pretty girl like that was bound to attract a suitor sooner or later. He'd had to look twice to see what she meant.

And she was still staring, her eyes full of sorrow, her posture ever so slightly hunched in dejection. The candles burning low, dim light danced at the corners of her face, flickering in her eyes like tears would. Something in his throat seemed to be being compressed and curving to breaking point like a piece of cane, making him swallow painfully. He stared at the woodwork of the bar, needing to avert his eyes. It was only then that he realised there were tears on his cheeks. He brushed them away hastily, lest anyone should see. Rather ridiculous, really, how most of the world was mourning a deadly conflict, and here he was crying over a woman.

But, said, the voice in his head, this wasn't just any woman. In recent years the world hadn't been half as devoted to peace as he had been to her. Perhaps it was something to do with the brandy, how suddenly he seemed unable to breathe easily.

It took him by surprise when, still staring blandly at the surface of the bar, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see the face he'd been staring at for the past twenty minutes, watching him in mild concern. She looked as if she wanted to ask him something. He gave a half-hearted smile to reassure her.

"We should probably go home," she told him quietly, "Before Miss O'Brien drinks herself under the table."

The latter remark was made with the ghost of a rueful smile.

"I hadn't noticed her on the brandy," he remarked, trying to keep his tone light, not wanting to betray the thoughts he'd been having of this woman only moments before.

"Gin and tonic," she informed him flatly.

"Ah."

"I think she's single handedly sustained this places's profit margin tonight."

He got off his chair, convinced that it was probably time to go now. He felt oddly unsteady on his feet.

"Are _you_ alright, Mr Carson?" he heard her ask.

He closed his eyes tightly, sure that she did not want an honest answer to that. Particularly if he went into explaining why he wasn't.

"Perfectly," he lied, his voice dismissive, before moving off to round up the male staff.

He did not see the concerned frown on her face as she gazed after him.


	2. Chapter 2

**I'm very glad that you all seemed to like the first chapter; so here be another one. This chapter keeps up the idea of being "different". "Quirky" would probably be the word I would use; it's loosely based on what I do when I come home if I _ever_ get in at what might be considered a late hour.**

"You know I blame you for this," he muttered in her ear as they progressed down the corridor. They had been extremely fortunate, he thought, that William and Mr Branson had confined their raucous singing to front step of The Grantham Arms and had abated before they reached the house.

"Why?" she asked puzzled, coming to a halt outside the door to the ladies' sleeping quarters.

"For saying you could murder a drink," he replied, his tone light but managing to keep the main edge of his exasperated mirth out of his voice.

She looked at him half-sternly.

"I didn't see you giving the brandy much mercy," she commented levelly.

Fortunately, he was spared answering by Anna and Gwen wishing them- very sleepily on Gwen's part- goodnight as they passed by. He had expected her to bid him goodnight and follow them, but instead she closed the door behind her and made for the stairs back to the lower levels. Puzzled, he remained stationary.

"Where on earth are you going?" he wanted to know.

She turned back, and looked quiet genuinely surprised for a moment to see that he had not followed her.

"I'm going to make some you some toast," she replied, as if it should have been obvious.

When he remained still, confused, she climbed back up the few stairs she had descended and tugged gently at the sleeve of his jacket until he conceded to join her.

"I didn't see you eat a single thing all afternoon," she offered by way of explanation, "And you'll feel terrible tomorrow especially if you've been drinking."

And at this rate we'll be asleep standing up, he thought to himself. But a more prevalent side of his mind wouldn't allow him to miss the chance to spend even a few moments alone with her- probably the fault of his thoughts earlier that evening- especially as she was being so kind to him. An almighty surge of wonderment and gratitude for her concern threatened but he pushed it to the side- determined not to let it over-whelm him. He could not, however, stop himself glancing fondly down at the top of her head. She was watching where she was going; she did not see.

"Shouldn't we take some up for Miss O'Brien?" he asked, briefly remembering their responsibility for the rest of the servants, "If anyone will be in a state tomorrow, it's her."

"Good luck with that," she told him flatly, "She was out for the count when I went to check on her. It looked like someone had hit her on the head with a bucket."

They exchanged a brief smile at the vague humour in that analogy; it was a thought almost everyone in the house had had at one time or another.

When they reached the kitchen, he sat quietly in a chair at the large table, while she pottered about. She moved around efficiently, busying herself first with the oven and then with the kettle to make them some tea, applying herself with a greater energy than each task probably required. She had an air, Charles thought, of trying to distract herself from darker thoughts by doing something which would normally seem mundane.

"Thank you," he said as she set a cup of tea down in front of him, returning to the oven to retrieve the toast.

"Do you want the butter?" she asked.

"I'll get it," he rose from his chair, feeling rather as if he was just sitting there like a useless lump, and went to the pantry to find it.

She had settled in the chair beside his when he returned. He took a sip of his tea.

"It's sweet," he remarked, though it did not really bother him.

"Yes," she replied, "I know you don't usually take it that way, but I thought it would be best that way: good for the shock," she then seemed realise the silliness of what she had said, and smiled, "Even after we've all been drinking."

The way she bowed her head, obviously embarrassed by feeling as if she was rambling on, was so endearing that he felt the impulse to reach out and just brush her hair or the side of her face. He shivered a little, embarrassed himself now. She was quiet; quiet in the way he'd seen from the other side of the pub, the way that had brought tears to his eyes. He applied himself to eating his toast; distraction now a necessity.

"What are you thinking, Charles?"

Her question took him by surprise amid the silence that had fallen between them. He looked up to see her sitting back in her chair, watching him curiously, a half-eaten piece of dry toast between her fingers. In spite of the lightness of her tone and expression, there suddenly seemed a gravity in her that made him think she knew exactly what he was thinking anyway. Her eyes were fixed upon him intently. "Thinking", he concluded, wasn't exactly the verb he would have used for what was going on inside his head at the minute...

"What are you worrying about, at any rate?" she amended.

So she did know exactly what he was thinking. Recalling his thoughts from earlier in the evening he hoped that this talent had only developed within the last half an hour.

"How long have you got?" he muttered dryly, taking a drink of his tea.

She blinked heavily.

"All night if you like," she replied, quite seriously.

He looked at her expression, wondering just how earnestly she meant it and received an almost sharp look and a tilt of her head that challenged him to put her to the test. Taking a few more seconds pause, he let out a sigh.

"How much is going to change?" he asked rhetorically, thinking he had found the main question at the heart of all the present upheaval, "Think about it; by this time next week the world could have been turned upside down." 

She paused, considering the point. Then looked as if she'd caught on to something, and did not like it.

"You aren't thinking of signing up are you?" she asked, looking quite genuinely appalled.

He allowed himself a low chuckle in spite of his glumness.

"I doubt they'd take an old fogey like me even if I did want to," he pointed out.

Apparently, she realised the truth of his remark and how silly a conclusion she had jumped to- and, unless his eyes deceived him, looked much more at ease.

"Less of the "old", thank you," she told him over her mug of tea, "I'm only a few years behind you."

He smiled sadly.

"It's not me who'll go, it's... Mr Bates, William, Mr Branson, maybe even his Lordship. I mean, apart from having to find a way to work around missing staff; we sort of end up like family here," he was daring enough to steal a glance at her expression, "It's hard to imagine the place without them."

She watched him intently.

"I'm sorry," he apologised, "I shouldn't be going on like this. It's not like everyone else isn't in the same boat."

Waiting for her to reply, he almost felt as if she was cross with him for having moaned on so much. He looked at the woodwork of the table, having embarrassed himself again.

"I'll still be here, Charles," she pointed out.

Immediately he liked the softness with which she used his Christian name, distracting him almost to the point where he missed the implication of the words themselves. She was watching him kindly, softly and sadly. Suddenly, the feeing of sitting here with her- utterly exhausted as they were- was extremely intimate. They sat, each studying the other's expressions while pretending not to be, suspended in what almost felt like a new understanding between them.

"Thank you," he said finally, hoping that she would understand that he did not just mean for the tea and toast.

"It's alright."

She did.

She brushed the loose strands of hair away from the front of her face, with a sense of resolution about her. No, Charles thought, that had ruined it. It the minutes since she had reassured him that she would always remain he had been trying to convince himself that they could just get along like a butler and housekeeper should; with a deep, professional mutual respect. No, with the movement that accompanied that simple gesture he'd seen a ripple of haunting beauty again. He could not control how he felt, not if he tried.

He said goodnight and departed; before something along the lines of the fact that she was the love of his life slipped out by accident.


	3. Chapter 3

**Gosh, this was difficult to write and I have no idea why. If it's terrible I blame the History exam which frazzled my brain yesterday.**

Despite his initial misconceptions about the idea- thinking that they would be exhausted the next day- he concluded that had he not spent the late evening in the kitchen with Elsie, he would have been even more worn down, albeit in a different way. Her assurance that at least she would remain kept him going through the turbulent few days that followed, and for that he was grateful. Remembering the dismal feeling of thinking he had been too forward when talking to her- though her reply had been kind- he was careful not to push himself too much towards her in the next few days. He simply watched, on occasions with some amusement, as she held the household together below stairs like some inimitable lynch pin.

Not that there was nothing to distract him; far from it. All of a sudden there was the great difficulty of having to work out how he was going to manage to continue to run the house smoothly, without knowing how many people he was going to be left with and the added complication of not knowing what the state of affairs upstairs would be. As well as most of the staff seeming to have their thoughts occupied elsewhere to the extent where it was difficult to get them to do any work, though that was only a minor deviation from the norm.

But even though he should have been rushed off his feet, perhaps _because _he should have been rushed off his feet, he was drawn predictably back towards her like a particularly faithful homing pigeon. One evening after supper he found her at her desk in her sitting room bent over what looked like paperwork.

"I can come back later if you like," he told her. She seemed distracted as she looked up.

"No, don't be silly," she gestured him into the room and to the seat facing her, "I'm sorry, I must seem a bit away with the fairies. I've just been talking to William."

This did not surprise him; he knew Elsie had made it her business to keep an eye on the boy ever since he'd arrived. It had been well nigh invaluable before he'd managed to shut Thomas up. She leant back in her chair, surveying her visitor.

"It was a rude awakening to see him on the front step of the pub singing his head off," she remarked, quiet a sentimental look playing across her features, then, not without a hint of irony, "I sometimes forget how much he's grown up."

Charles smiled slightly.

"I'd rather he'd gone for something classical," he told her.

The corners of her mouth twitched.

"He's nearly made up his mind, I think," she told him.

He could see her watching his expression carefully as she did so.

"Staying or going?" he asked, not without some trepidation.

Almost as if by instinct, she put her hand to her temple to rest her head a little and he knew it would not be good news.

"Going, I think. He's almost sure of it."

He sighed at the inevitability of it all.

"You don't want him to go, I take it?" he asked.

"Don't want him to? I even went as far as to try to persuade him to stay for Daisy's sake!" There was a bitterness in what she said as well as an almost amused reflection on the unusual lengths to which she was willing to go.

"And what did he say to that?" Charles wanted to know.

She shook her head almost dismissively.

"He seemed to think that he wouldn't be enough of a man if he didn't go and fight," she told him, "I don't know if he hasn't still been letting Thomas get to him a little bit."

They were quiet for a few moments, both staring into space a little, lost in their own thoughts. The expression on her face seemed to mirror his sentiments perfectly.

"It's such a bloody waste," she stated quietly, looking at the table. There was an unnerving, stabbing conviction in her tone.

He blinked heavily.

"Yes, yes it is," he agreed, "War is such a waste of a lot of things, but especially of life."

Her eyes rose a little and she contemplated his face carefully. The futility of their position seemed to dawn on them both.

"Why are we the only ones who realise it, then?" she asked.

And the worst thing for him, even worse than having to see her helplessly plagued by the incomprehensibility of it all, was being completely unable to give her any kind of reassuring answer. While she knew exactly how to sort him out, he sat pathetically as the wonderful, beautiful woman before him had to baffle through her confusion by herself. However, her own resolve- so much more optimistic than his, by nature- brought her back to herself. She smiled humourlessly.

"How about you?" she asked, "I assume you didn't come to find me with the purpose of allowing me to depress you?"

He shook his head at the remark. But then, why had he come to see her? He couldn't remember a definite reason.

"I just wanted to see you," he confessed, not really thinking and then being taken aback alarmingly by his own honesty, "I mean, we haven't had much chance to catch up this week... being so busy."

He had a feeling that she saw through his rather hasty attempt at an explanation, and so decided to dig himself into even more of a hole.

"I do rather depend on seeing you from time to time."

His tone was light, thankfully barely conveying an ounce of the weight with which he really meant the statement. But it made her smile, so he was glad of having said it, no matter how much of a fool he felt besides. However, he then found that he had nothing more to say than that. Thankfully, she seemed to realise that this was the case and swooped in to save him.

"I suppose this is the first time in about twenty years that I haven't been envious of those younger than me," she reflected.

Sometimes her ability to be optimistic add the oddest of times was startling. But there was something more to her statement, he perceived. Something in her tone that hinted at the antithesis of optimism. He titled his head a little, wanting an explanation. She sniffed.

"Do you never wish you had the chance to live your life over again, Charles?" she asked, biting her lip.

He had no idea what to say to that for a moment. And then he knew exactly what he'd like to have said, but had no idea how to. So he said nothing, waiting for her to continue. But she did not, so he asked, feeling brave:

"What would you have done differently?"

"Oh heavens, I don't know: something," she told him sadly, "Probably got married. I would have very much liked to have a child of my own."

And in one motion it suddenly felt as if his breathing apparatus had been tightened. Though he knew it was probably foolish of him, seeing the hurt in her expression as she made the confession, it struck him that he had failed her. Had he let her know how he felt years ago, he could have spared her the regret she now felt, he could at least have let her know that... that she had an option. But it was too late now by far.

"I'm sorry," she apologised, obviously thinking she had made him uncomfortable, "That was probably too forward of me."

He shook his head.

"It was honest," he corrected.

Her eyes returned to the surface of the desk. He was thankful for the wooden barrier between them: had it not been there he knew he would have not been able to stop himself taking her into his arms with great force and flatly declining to let go until he had held her for long enough to undo a fraction of the damage that had been done by time. For all his praise of her honesty, it wasn't something he excelled at himself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry for the pitiful delay. Blame a complicated mixture of AQA, The Open University, Acorn Antiques and Macbeth. Hence the haziness of this chapter.**

It was probably a bad idea for Charles to be in that particular room at that moment. Not that he wasn't supposed to be- far from it. It was just moderately inconvenient to him to have to stand and appear impassive as the whole future of Downton Abbey was discussed, and none too delicately, by members of Lord Grantham's family. Although in his head he knew that they had more than every right to, it was after all their property, he could not ignore the stab of indignation he felt, and had to hide: it was as much his home as it was theirs.

But perhaps he was being selfish; at least decisions regarding other people's livelihoods did not lie in his hands. Watching the expression on his Lordship's face from where he stood, he experienced a brief pang of thankfulness that the biggest decision he had to make at that very moment was who needed their tea re-freshened. As it happened, it was Lady Violet; Charles busied himself for a few moments, glad to have some distraction from the conversation taking place, lest he hear something that he really didn't want to.

"The fact remains," his Lordship was saying by the time Charles began paying attention again, "That with Matthew gone we can expect work on the estate to decrease by a long way. And then, of course, we shall see our income fall drastically."

Charles stirred himself to keep standing straight, though the words made the hairs on his neck stand on end a little. His Lordship was not usually one to place too much emphasis on financial matters unless there was the potential for serious problems. Falling incomes in times like these, when there was a large house and estate to be run was _never _a good thing.

"Are you sure you need leave?" much to his surprise, Isobel Crawley spoke the mind of nearly everyone in the room when she addressed her son. Though he had disagreed with her many times in the past, Charles found himself conforming emphatically with what the woman said, albeit for different reasons.

Predictably, the eyes of nearly every single person in the room swivelled towards Mr Crawley.

"Yes, mother," he replied, rather shortly, "We have already discussed this."

Mrs Crawley pursed her lips, but did not press any further. Charles thought he beheld a twinge of pity in Lady Violet's expression as she watched the other woman from the other side of the room- though maybe it was just the light. Where she sat beside Lady Edith, Lady Mary was staring determinedly at the floor. The room shuffled uncomfortably.

"How much?" her Ladyship asked carefully, noticing the heavy frown line across her husband's brow, "How much might we stand to lose?"

In spite of himself, Charles found himself holding his breath. He tried not to appear to goggle as his Lordship gently rubbed his hand across his forehead, as if to placate his thoughts.

"Not too much, hopefully," Charles could not help but feel that some very strained optimism was being employed here, "The main problem is that work on the land is likely to halve, and we may lose a few tenants but we should be able to find away to make up some of our losses there. Besides, it is likely that there may be some use for the house that we can benefit from. It will keep us busy, even if we don't profit." 

Charles was now listening intently, never mind catching the odd ends of sentences. Along with most of the room, he was waiting for Lord Grantham to explain what he meant.

"There has been a suggestion," he continued, "That large country houses open as hospitals, or at least places where men can recuperate."

There was a murmur of understanding, perhaps of approval, around the room. However, Charles could not quite share in it. Hospitals would bring their own trained staff. He stood there stock still for a moment, hoping that his face remained blank. The thought that he might at one point be surplus to requirements at Downton had never before crossed his mind. Now that it had, everything was strangely clouded and grey.

"What about the servants?" Lady Sybil was frowning as she asked the question, as if she failed to see the likely- and horrible- outcome that Charles did.

Suddenly the other occupants of the room seemed uncomfortably aware of Charles' presence. Clearing his throat, he turned away towards the sideboard and pretended to tidy the tea things, hoping to put them at ease. As he did so he noticed that the door was slightly open. Irritated that he had not noticed before, he almost made to go and close it. But just before he did, he caught a glimpse of someone standing in the shadow behind it. His immediate reaction was to make an excuse so he could go and soundly berate the individual with the temerity to eavesdrop on a conversation between his Lordship and the family. But the pair of eyes- and he could just make out that they were brown- stared intently back at him. And foolishly, he found he could not bring himself to be angry with their owner.

…**...**

Once the family had, finally, departed and gone their separate ways to prepare for dinner, Elsie slipped into the drawing room and joined him, where he was clearing up at the sideboard.

"I take it you heard everything," he asked levelly, handing her a tray of dirty teacups, attempting vaguely to be stern but settling for rolling his eyes at her.

"I'd want my ears seeing to if I didn't," she remarked dryly.

He smiled in spite of himself.

"That does tend to be the case when you press yourself up against the door," he pointed out, picking up his own tray and following her out of the room.

It was his turn to have eyes rolled at him. Then the seriousness of what they were discussing seemed to set in and they headed down the corridor towards the stairs in uneasy silence.

"They'll surely be able to find room for us," Elsie told him quietly, with the definite air of someone trying hard to convince themselves as well as someone else, "Houses like this don't keep themselves, after all!"

He cast an affectionate glance at her wild optimistic logic. He had not counted on her seeing him do so, and she coloured a little when she did- evidently realising that though apparently calm, there was a hysterical edge to her and what she said. Once the hysteria had dulled, he knew there would be a melancholy. It was no wonder really, he thought, everything was tremendously vague yet at the same time deadly serious at the moment. Like walking through a foggy lightening storm. There was one, however, they could settle on:

"We don't let anyone else no about this," he recommended in a low voice, "None of the other servants, that is. Everyone's upset enough without feeling that their jobs are all on the line too."

Elsie nodded her agreement.

"You're right," she concluded, "Wait until we know something for definite."

"Something that we're _supposed _to know," he teased a little, reminding her of her unscrupulous activities.

It worked: she shot a rather feisty smile sideways at him, and he was hard-pressed not to laugh out loud. It was as if he had stepped under a gap in the clouds. He was wonderfully glad that he'd decided to try to lighten the tone of their conversation. While he was making her laugh, making her feel better, unemployment and dissolution could wait.

"You're not going to live that down, are you?" she asked lightly.

"Now, if _you'd _caught a housemaid doing what you were, would you?" he shot back at her testily.

He saw her stifle a laugh.

"Probably not," she admitted.

The light tone of their voices- winding each other up- was fresh in contrast with the greyness of what day to day life was now, and was it might become. He sighed in the weird sweetness of it. At least, if things did come to a horrible screeching halt in the near future, even if he never saw her again after today, he had a whole library of memories such as this to play back over in his mind.

"Charles?"

She was watching him, in mild confusion. He realised he had not altogether kept his countenance amid the wave of stolen meditation. He smiled at her, a little wearily. He noticed an even more pronounced weariness in the thoroughly sobered-up smile he received in response.

…**...**

And he had been right, he noted with a pang of triumph in the vague recesses of his consciousness. But it was firmly sidelined by every other emotion that came teaming into being when he saw Elsie that evening; emotions with a rawness that amazed him further, he was quite sure that he hadn't felt them so painfully in years.

She was sitting silently on the settee in her pantry, knees curled up to her chest. It frightened him; her posture was almost childlike; her skin even more pale than usual; her expression eerily blank. But there was a solitary tear on her cheeks.

"Elsie?"

He could scarcely believe his eyes. Tears on Elsie Hughes' cheeks were rarer than tears of gold were on anyone else's face. The hollow optimism of earlier in the day had clearly dissipated- it probably should have been predictable that it would. He sat down in the chair in front of her, taking hold of her wrist in his hand. She blinked a little, as if suddenly able to see again.

"Elsie?" he repeated firmly, needing a response.

"You weren't supposed to see me like this," she told him softly, making no movement whatever to free her arm from him.

So the mask had slipped. He saw it now, she was as worried, as terrified by all of this as he was. And that was the single thing that frightened him the most.

"Come on, Elsie," he told her softly, trying to buck her up a little, "You are the strong one. The house might have actually collapsed by now if weren't for you. If you give in to all of this madness, I don't know what I'll do."

She stared at him for a few moments, as if completely unable to comprehend, to accept what he'd said. He mentally scanned backwards, trying to think of what he had said that could have caused offence. The lines of her face were showing definite signs of distaste now.

"You stupid, stupid man."

He had a feeling he was about to find out. The words, despite the fact that they should have pierced him, they echoed emptily, he could not absorb them. Though she almost looked visibly angry now and tears were freely running down her cheeks, she had still not shaken her hand from his. He braced himself a little, but it was no where near enough to prepare him for what he was about to hear.

"Sometimes I wonder, Charles, if you can see past the end of your nose, I really do. I'm not strong, I'm anything but, and the end of the day that's all a face I put on. Is it beyond the stretch of your imagination that I might just love you back?"

**Please review if you have time.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Short, but sweet. Hopefully.**

He could not speak for what felt like whole minutes, he only stared at her; completely astonished. All he could think was that he had surely misheard- she couldn't possibly have just said... But she was crying, crying _properly _now and that stole his attention firmly away from the bedlam in his own head. At first it had seemed that she also could not quite account for the words that had come out of her mouth, then her expression simply collapsed into one of complete and despairing confusion. He could not bring himself to watch this. Biting his lip a little, he threw caution to the wind and simply reached out to take her into his arms.

She was much smaller than him; his arms could stretch right round her easily and hold her tight, even with her own arms folded against his chest, tugging a little frantically at his shirt front. Now he knew that it was foolish to ask her not to cry; he could only hold her until her sobs abated, though truthfully they were punishing for him to hear. Even though it almost felt as if he were taking a liberty, he pressed his lips into her hair, hoping to ease her a little.

And still he could not ignore what she had said, echoing like a mantra around his head: "_Is it beyond the stretch of your imagination that I might just love you back?_" Well, yes, it was. It had never so much as occurred to him. No wonder she had been angry with him, really. It could have hardly helped that while the world was turning upside down around her, he was there acting like a clueless oaf. He closed his eyes, pushing that notion away; trying only to focus on the soft feeling of her head against his neck. And what on earth he could possibly say to her when her sobs abated.

…**... **

But it turned out not to be necessary to wonder. Even as her emotional outburst ended, she made no move to break away from his embrace, and he, well, he felt more blessed with every passing second that she allowed him to hold her. So suspended in this odd weeping contentedness, they simply stayed in each others arms, slumping after a while against the back of the settee and then, later, practically lay beside each other. It was dark now, no light in the room apart from the suggestion of moonlight from the gap in the curtains.

Still together; she faced away from him, holding the hand that cradled her head. She felt very thin; he was sure that that was a fairly recent development, and cursed himself for not noticing earlier. She was relaxed perfectly against him; not discomforted at all by the way his other arm held a little against her stomach. He wanted her to forget everything; forget the war, forget that they should really have done this years ago; forget the child she, they, hadn't had. It was almost overwhelming for him that they should be here like this; the wonderment rose thickly in his throat, sending his senses spinning. This is how he would love her from now on, he decided; not just worshipping her from afar. He would bear seeing her cry so that he could be there for her. So that he could be strong when she was not.

"Charles?" 

A while later, when she spoke, it occurred to him that they had not exchanged so much as a word since her confession. Yet the way they knew each other seemed to have advanced more in that time than during everything they had said to each other in twenty years. She shifted round to face him. The first thing he noticed, his hand brushing her face tentatively, was fresh tear tracks.

"Oh, Elsie."

There was delicately balanced pause for a moment. Then, stretching a little to reach his mouth, she kissed him. Though there was sweetness in it, there was also a breathless, needy edge that- though it was almost contagious- worried him. Drawing away, he placed a hand carefully on her shoulder. Under her breathe, he thought he heard a whimper and- not wanting to provoke any further tears:

"One day," he told her quietly, "I will love you like that, if you'll let me. But not tonight."

There was something niggling within him, reminding him that they could wake up tomorrow and she might feel differently, and wish she had never said she loved him. It was not a thought he wanted to dwell on for too long, but he knew he could not allow her to do anything she might regret.

"We will talk about everything tomorrow," he continued firmly, "Just try to forget everything, and sleep."

Gradually, she relaxed into his chest again. Though she was exhausted, he could tell that she did not sleep straight away, but lay there a while. It occurred to neither of them to get up and go to sleep elsewhere, separately. He could not see her face in the dark, but knew she would be chewing her lip, blinking slowly. Wondering where on earth they would go from here.

**Please review if the fancy takes you.**


	6. Chapter 6

**I feel I should explain that the reason I was horrendously neglectful of my stories this weekend is because I was in London, watching Penelope Wilton at the Almeida and was so struck by her brilliance that I have the urge to write something with Mrs Crawley in it. In fact I want to write a piece with most of the older women at Downton in it (Hughes, Violet, O'Brien, Cora, Isobel, maybe Mrs Patmore)- likely a comic one. If anyone has any ideas or wants to write it with me, drop me a line.**

**Rant over. On with the story: **

"Charles, I'm sorry."

That was possibly, he concluded, the single most disconcertingly ambiguous thing that someone you loved who you had just slept... beside could say to you, getting up in the morning, while disentangling themselves from you. He had been prepared for this, or at least he thought he had; that she might wake up in the morning and wish she could take back what she had said. But he still felt his stomach try unmistakably to sink.

She bowed her head looking at the top of the settee for a moment. Probably, he thought, deciding how best to break it to him. He wondered if he should just make it easier for her and say it himself. It did not help matters any, though he probably shouldn't have noticed, that her collar and cuffs remained loosened as they had been when he'd found her. She looked plainly up at him.

"I'm sorry I called you a stupid man," she told him, not a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

He blinked.

"I'm sorry I clung on to you so you couldn't leave this tiny little settee; and that you probably didn't sleep a wink because of it."

When she stopped, his heart almost dared to soar.

"Anything else you'd like to apologise for?" he tried to joke, wanting to make sure there was nothing else pressing on her conscience before he jumped, metaphorically, for joy.

"No," she replied, and frowned a little, "Should there be?"

He couldn't help it; he kissed her on the lips, without so much as thinking about why, or where they were, or that it was not yet breakfast time. And it wasn't a frightened, needy kiss like before. Only a little sleepy, and surprised. And oh so happy.

Breaking away, she raised her eyebrows a little at him. And he almost apologised, only he was aware that that might lead to the conversation going round and round in circles for quite a long time.

"You meant it," he said by way of explaining his unusual behaviour.

Neither needed what "it" was explaining to them. She smiled a little.

"I did," she conceded, "Is that so hard to believe?"

Yes, it still was.

They stood there facing each other; their clothes all ruffled, neither feeling the need to say anything at that moment. Though, of course, they would have to talk about it some time or other. But not now; the sun was gradually rising and they would have to separate soon to avoid the inevitable talk that would spring up about the house if someone happened upon them.

"I ought to go and change my shirt," he told her, "I can't go round looking like this all day."

He indicated to the very ruffled state his shirt was in after a night with her head resting against it. Though he was sure his eyes were deceiving him, what looked like the flicker of a nearly fiendish smile passed over her face as her eyes followed his.

"Yes," there was something of a forced level edge to her tone, "You better had."

The second before she opened the door, he kissed her on the cheek, and then departed swiftly.

…**...**

They did not get the chance to talk for a good few days after that. Probably wise, he reflected in spite of his frustration; it gave them time to distance themselves from the aftermath of their night together, to think with some modicum of clarity. And he missed her, it was true, but if it meant they could come to some kind of understanding between them in the long run, he had a feeling it would be worth it. This was the thought chiefly occupying his mind as he put on his hat and coat to walk down to the village on his day off, the following Tuesday.

Closing the door of his pantry, he was pleasantly surprised to find Elsie waiting in the corridor, also wearing her outdoor clothes.

"I should warn you that Anna said she would come with me," he told her quietly, noting the expectant expression on her face, and not without a hint of amusement in his voice, "In case you were contriving to get me on my own again."

Though she feigned being aloof to his remark, she did not quite hide her faint smile.

"You underestimate me," she replied flatly, "I have provided her with a mop and bucket. She'll be busy for quite a while."

"Tyrant," he remarked under his breath as they left through the back door.

She snorted audibly.

Neither spoke again until they were out of the gate and heading down the main path. It was good practice to remain silent until at least a good thirty paces away from the building that contained both Miss O'Brien and Mrs Patmore.

"Elsie?" he finally began hesitantly, aware that the time for them to talk was probably presenting itself admirably now.

"Hm?"

"How on earth did you know that I loved you?" he asked; the question had been pressing almost constantly in his mind for days now, almost irritating him, even, "Was it so obvious? Have I made a terrible fool of myself?"

Unless he was very much mistaken, she smiled at him rather fondly.

"I didn't know," she admitted.

That did not quite make sense.

"But-..."

"I guessed, I suppose," she continued, "I'd see you looking at me, and I knew you felt something. But I didn't know for certain, that's why I didn't say anything for quite a long time really. When it came down to it I was overwrought, I was frustrated. It came out of my mouth before I'd even thought about what I was saying."

He was quiet: there was nothing he could think of to say in reply.

"You do, don't you Charles?"

"What?"

"L-love me?"

Why on earth was she asking that? he wondered. But, thinking back, he could not remember lining the words up in their most clear order.

"Elsie," he told her gentle, "You are wonderful, probably the most wonderful person I've ever met. And I love you. You ridiculous woman," he could not help but adding.

They continued at a level pace, each smiling a little at the road.

"We've lost so much time quite needlessly," she pointed out.

He detected a tiny strain in her voice. She was watching his expression with a hesitant little frown, looking as if her throat was clenched a little in something like regret or anticipation.

He sighed a little.

"I don't think either of us can deny that," he replied.

The silence that followed was a difficult one. An unspoken pain, a gap where relief was missing seeped around them with the sense of waste. They trod rhythmically on, through the haze of confusion, wishing things were different. But, he thought, they were lucky. Because it was not too late for them to set things straight. Very slowly, so as to alarm neither of them, he reached out, took her by the hand and squeezed it. He saw the corners of her mouth twitch in acknowledgement of the comfort the gesture offered.

"But we still have some time," he reminded her, "It's not too late for us."

There was hope in her face as she turned towards him, but still a need for certainty. He still had a hold of her hand.

"There has to be," he continued, "Or I don't know what I'll do."

**Please review if you have the time. I think I will continue this story into their relationship- if people are interested- as I'm enjoying it and I have no more exams! **


	7. Chapter 7

He had not got used to this; being able to look at her unashamedly, and feel very lucky indeed. This particular situation was doubly awkward; he found her polishing the drawing room mirror one evening. Catching her expression of deep concentration in the glass, he smiled to himself.

"Hello, Charles," evidently, she caught his reflection too.

Momentarily embarrassed to have been caught just watching her, again, he bowed his head a little. And was hit on the brow by her duster as she threw it at him. He looked up indignantly to see her grinning at him, polish still in hand.

"What are you even doing cleaning mirrors at this time?" he asked, as if this made his behaviour her fault, "It's almost eight o'clock; it'll be our supper time in the minute."

"It was filthy," she told him, "I only noticed this afternoon, and I couldn't let you notice," she flashed half an exasperated smile at him, "You would have had a fit!"

"I would have if you missed a meal, too," he told her, trying not to let it sound too sentimental or ...clingy. He was pleased that she seemed to be regaining some of the weight she had lost since the war had broken out, and wasn't willing to let cleaning put a stop to it.

He stepped towards where she stood, holding the duster himself.

"Let me finish it off for you," he instructed, "Go downstairs and have a sit down."

He saw her reflection roll its eyes at him.

"I'm perfectly capable of finishing what I start," she informed him, half-heartedly pretending to be offended, "And I'm sure, should I ask her, Lady Sybil would be only too happy to come up here and inform you that women are as capable as men when it comes to cleaning mirrors!" 

"I'm sure she would and I wouldn't dream of arguing with her," he conceded graciously, "It's just that you're too short to reach the top of that mirror."

With that remark, and probably deservedly, the duster was snatched out of his hand and thrown squarely back into his face. He heard a muttering of what sounded suspiciously like "bloody cheek".

"Stubborn bloody woman," he replied as the duster was scooped of his waistcoat in a flourish and Elsie stood as tall as she could on her tiptoes to try- hopelessly- to reach the top corners of the mirror and prove a point.

For a moment he considered just taking the duster out of her hand and finishing it off for her, but realised that would leave him liable to getting something else flung at him; and he didn't think that polish would come out of his jacket. Instead he reached out from where he stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her tightly.

He caught her off her guard, she must have felt his arms around her waist before she saw his reflection, and gasped just loudly enough for him to hear her. Standing on her tiptoes as she was, he felt her hair, and when she turned, the corner of her forehead press softly against his chin. He could not explain what made him do it, only that in the moment before he had, he felt an overwhelming surge of tenderness towards her; and when she relaxed into his arms, he was very glad that he had. To say that the closeness was comforting was a dreadful understatement.

Watching her expression in the mirror was fascinating. At first he was worried that she would be cross to be sprung upon so suddenly like that, but there wasn't a trace of irritation there, only surprise and comfort. And a trace of something else; something that looked like it could just be solid, loaded emotion. For once, she did not catch his observing her, but this time he almost wished she had. So he kissed the corner of her forehead beside his face, moving his right to hug her higher across her chest to her shoulder. She looked up, catching his eye.

"You silly, sentimental, old trout."

He laughed out loud at the way she delivered the words; the emphatic exasperated joy behind them meant he couldn't help it. She rested her chin on his arm for a moment. The feeling of her breath on his wrist was pleasant.

"We should get going soon," she reminded him at last.

It was remarkable how, having come to fetch her to ensure she ate some supper, he had managed to forget all about it. In fact he had almost forgotten that such a thing as food existed.

"Probably," he conceded reluctantly, feeling her shift a little and releasing her from his hold.

It was still early days in their relationship, but he could not deny, by any stretch of the imagination, that the feeling of her body next to his at the times he did hold was nothing short of wonderful to him. It was probably improper, even given that he had loved her for years; but this was somehow not as much of a pressing concern as it usually seemed to be. She obviously caught the expression on his face, and squeezed his hand.

"Come on," she whispered, nudging him a little to try and inspire some movement in him, "They'll miss us."

He considered that it would be coy to say that while he was forced not to hold her, he would miss her. But he followed her out of the safe haven of the drawing room, heading back towards the servants' stairs, reflecting that secrecy was worth it a thousand times over for moments like the one they had just had.

**Please review if you have the time.**


	8. Chapter 8

One of the worst things that could happen in the late autumn when you happened to live in an attic was for the heating to break down. He just about managed one night with three extra blankets piled on top of him, but it was no good: by the time they heard it wouldn't be fixed in time for the next evening, he wasn't the only one grumbling that they would have to find their extra pyjamas.

That, he tried unsuccessfully to convince himself, was the only reason he said yes to her. It was the push factor, rather than the pull, that persuaded him. After about ten minutes he had conceded that quite the reverse was true.

"Just wait an hour, until everyone's asleep" she told him, "Then come and stay in my room."

That, he had thought to himself, was what you called a big step. It obviously showed in his face.

"Oh, freeze if you want to," she told him, "I won't stop you, but it just seems so silly when you needn't."

"Won't it be just as cold in your room?" he pointed out, trying to find a fault in what the less formal side of him was telling him was an excellent suggestion.

"You forget that my room's right next to the hot water tank," she told him with a shy smile, "It works independently from the main heating system. It's like toast in my room; I had Gwen visiting me before asking if she could dry her stockings in there." 

Really, she had it down to a fine art, making madness sound like a perfectly sound thing to do. She was watching the look on his face closely as he tried to come to a decision.

"Don't get your hopes up," she warned, "I'll make you sleep in the armchair if you think I'm just doing it to have my wicked way."

He smiled at that. He got the feeling she had no intention of making him do anything of the sort.

"Alright," he conceded, feeling it would be gentlemanly to make it seem as if he did so with a little reluctance "But I'm doing it because of I can't stand another night in the cold. I'm doing it... because of the cold," he finished weakly.

Her expression was far too knowing as she said "Alright, then."

…**...**

They had slept beside each other twice in their lives. Once recently and once about eighteen years ago; both times completely unintentionally. That, then, was where the difference was; they knew they were doing this. While he knew she remembered the last time, he wasn't so sure about the first.

_It was during the London season. As under-butler and head housemaid their presence was not required at Grantham House, so they stayed put with the other housemaids and the footmen. The housekeeper had gone to visit her aunt who was reputedly aged and ailing. And, by and large, they thought they had done well as temporary heads of the household at keeping the rest of the staff under control. Until Charles' birthday, that was._

_It wasn't often that there was such ample opportunity for the servants to have a party; both the butler and housekeeper away from the house and no family to wait on. He'd have felt like a killjoy if he'd said no to having a party thrown for him, though it was definitely more for everyone else's enjoyment than his own. _

_And, good heavens, did the footmen at Downton Abbey know how to throw a very rowdy party! There was food, there was a lot of beer and they opened up the servants' hall piano and started "singing and dancing". And, it was fair to say, they stayed up much later than would have been acceptable had the house been inhabited by anyone other than themselves. Around midnight, amid various raucous repeated calls of "Happy birthday, Charlie!", Charles negotiated his way out of the servants' hall and into the corridor. He was looking for Elsie, she, he thought ruefully to himself, was the only sane person around here. A light was on in the kitchen; he headed towards it, thinking he would try in there._

_He came to an abrupt halt in the doorway. She was indeed there, but she was not alone. George was there too. Charles liked George well enough, he only wished that he did not have his arm around Elsie's waist. He wished as much quite fiercely. Not wanting to leave, but obviously unable to declare his presence, he loitered in the doorway, the sound of the piano still fumbling away in the background. Then it was punctuated with a sound that made his hair stand on end; a bitter little sob. Elsie was facing away from him and, now he realised, was crying. George looked like he was trying to comfort her, but to little avail. _

"_Oh for heaven's sake," he heard her shout, "Just leave me alone, George!"_

_And with that, she flew in Charles' direction; he backed away quickly enough for her not to notice him as she dashed, still crying from the kitchen. However, he did not manage to go completely unnoticed. George wandered towards the door after Elsie slowly enough to gage that they hadn't been alone._

"_Happy now, Carson?" he all but spat._

_Charles was completely perplexed, as far as he was aware there was no reason that he should be happy that Elsie was not happy with her suitor. Well, there was, but he very much hoped that George didn't know about it. _

"_I've no idea what you mean," he told the footman, half-truthfully._

_George only shook his head at Charles, for some reason looking disgusted, and walked off back towards the party. Completely baffled by people's behaviour that evening, Charles headed towards the butler's pantry- which he had been told he could use until Mr Jones returned. He did not feel like going back to the party at all. _

_He had been sitting alone for about half an hour when there was the tiniest tap on the door._

"_Come in," he called, surprised that anyone would want to see him this late._

_Even more white-faced than usual, her cheeks showing signs of having recently been tear-stained, Elsie's face appeared around the door._

"_Can I come in?" she asked quietly, "I don't feel much like a party at the minute."_

_He thought of her running away from George, looking stricken and despairing for some reason unbeknown to him, and his heart went out to her. _

"_Come and sit down," he told her, indicating to the settee beside him._

_She flopped gratefully into the seat beside him. He had a feeling she might have been drinking. The image of the look on her face was suddenly replaced by a memory of the fierce surge of indignation he had felt when he saw her in George's arms. _

"_Are you alright?" he asked, though it was something of a silly question. _

_She sniffed in reply._

"_Yes," she told him softly, "Everything is fine, truly. I just feel so miserable somehow."_

_Though it was daring, he caved in to his impulse to reach an arm around her in an attempt to offer her some comfort. Something, a breaking feeling under-lying the way she delivered the words made him need to try to console her. She did not object, if anything she shuffled a couple of inches closer. In fact enough inches to close the gap between her nose and his waistcoat._

_She sniffed again, but this time he heard a sad little smile in the sound._

"_Is it George?" he asked her._

_There was a pause._

"_Probably," she admitted quietly. And then, "Things just... just don't seem to be going very well with him. And I don't know what I'm doing wrong!"  
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"_Oh, Elsie," something was aching behind his ribs, something that simultaneously clenched in his throat and made it hard for him to breathe, "Elsie, don't say that."_

"_Why not?" she asked, a little incredulously, "It's true! He thinks I'm... I'm..." she trailed off, unable or unwilling to finish._

_He did not press her, the last thing she needed was another man treating her badly, he thought with indignation. Instead he wrapped the other arm around her back, rather possessively. But again, she did not protest; and snuggled a little closer to him._

"_Stay with me, Charles," she asked, a plea in her voice, "Please."_

"_Of course I will," he told her, "I'll stay all night if you want me to."_

And that was how they first came to spend a night together, huddled on a settee that neither had a particular claim to.

**Please review if you have time; part two of this chapter will follow.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Part 2**

He waited an for hour- like she's told him to- in the perishing cold, then crept out of his room, negotiated his way as quietly as possible through the door between the men's and women's sleeping quarters and let himself into her room. He did not knock, knowing that every moment spent in the corridor was another moment in which he could be caught out. So, in the safe haven afforded to him by her room, he paused, waiting for some acknowledgement or sign of admittance. She had been right, it was as warm as toast in here.

She was lying in bed, on her side, very awake. He saw her smile at him in the mellow glow of the oil lamp she had lit on her bedside table. He glanced towards the armchair and was pleased to note that strew over it were the clothes she would wear the next day; obviously she hadn't meant that she'd make him sleep there. Seeing his eyes flicker towards it, she grinned slightly as she peeled the bedclothes back for him to get in beside her.

"Silly man," she mumbled, "You didn't really think I'd make you, did you?"

She shuffled to the side, as far as the narrow bed would permit her, and let him lie on the warm part of the sheet that she'd left. The feeling was rapidly returning to him frozen fingers and toes. He chuckled a little at the remark.

Though he had been worried that his lying so close to her might intimidate her, it seemed he had been wrong. Her shoulder curled over and nudged at his arm; until he wrapped it tentatively around her. The mattress on which their heads rested beside one another had a strange effect on them; both sunk equally into a sleepy, contented state, but still somehow they remained very aware of each other. They did not speak for a long time, though neither really made an attempt to sleep, just lay there with this new feeling.

"I always thought," she mumbled after a while, "We felt right together."

Her tone was almost that of talking aloud to herself but he knew she meant him to hear, and listened.

"I don't know how else to say it. It just felt like we were right."

She was just the right size to fit snugly in his arms, if he held them in the way he usually did when trying to sleep. He knew exactly what she meant by it. But...

"Always?" he asked, struck particularly by that word, "You mean you remembered it? The night... of my birthday party?"

"Of course I remembered," she told him, "I won't ever forget that night as long as I live."

There was a grim tinge to the apparently sentimental remark. He knew they would have to talk about this at one time or another, unpleasant as it might be for both of them.

"Not only for good reasons?" he prompted gently.

She rolled to lie on her back, his arms around her waist, one of her hands still lodged under his jaw. It remained there, playing with the feeling of his skin. She let out a small sigh that was enough to convey everything she said before she did. So _when_ she did, he'd already nudged his head against her shoulder in a funny gesture of shy comfort.

"Not exactly."

He bit his lip, wanting to ask the question that had come to form in his mind recently. Piecing together very hazy grey memories, a theory had come to form in his mind.

"Did he, did George, think you and I were...?"

He saw her nod slowly. Oh God, it all made sense now.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. He didn't know what else to say. It was another item in the catalogue of the ways in which he'd spoiled her life, completely unintentionally.

Then she rolled her head towards him, and looked at him very clearly. There was no trace of sleepiness left in either of them now.

"By God, I wish we had been." 

Such was the seriousness of her voice that he did not doubt she meant it for a single second. Her head rolled back again, and she lay watching the ceiling. He could see her face in profile: the half-frown she wore when trying desperately to control herself was stricken across her features. And there was nothing he could do but, shifting her palm gently from his face, shift closer and plant a kiss at her temple.

She let out a tiny sob, as she relinquished her attempts at control. Unable to contemplate another night of her crying in his arms, all he could do was kiss her softly and repetitively; until she tipped his head, steadied his chin and kissed him back.

**There could be a part three to this chapter. There wasn't going to be, but there could be if you would like. Please review if you have the time.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Probably an M, if we're going to be picky about it. That makes me terribly nervous about whether it's any good, please let me know.**

Of course it had to end eventually. The effect this was having on them building all the while, something had to give. They had to stop, or heaven only knew what would happen. Elsie sat up, apparently shaking, hugging her knees to her chest. Thinking she would probably want a little bit of distance put between them, he remained lying down. Her hair that had lain at her side now lay down her back, moving with the little tremors of her body.

"I've frightened you," he stated softly, feeling the regret roll out with the words. It was foolish of him to have got so carried away.

"No," came the reply. She turned her head back to face him and he saw that she was not shaking, but just breathing very heavily. "I'd have been rather more worried about us if this _hadn't_ happened."

"But?" he asked, feeling there must have been some reason that she had pulled away from him. He had no intention of taking things further than she was comfortable with, but he needed to know why she had wanted them to stop.

She threw him another glance and he clearly discerned a look of unease about her. Now he sat up, wrapping an arm carefully around her waist.

"Tell me," he instructed.

Though she settled easily into his hold on her, she let out a sigh. He raised his head so she could rest hers on his shoulder.

"I'm not," she began hesitantly, "I'm not the young girl who went into affairs easily any more, Charles. I'm not a girl any more. I'm not-..." she seemed to struggle to find the right words, "I might not be what you're expecting."

"No, you're not," he agreed eventually, "You're not a girl any more. You're a woman. I'm hardly the youngest of men myself," he smiled a little at that, "You're all I've ever wanted, Elsie," he confessed.

There was pause for a moment. He felt her forehead nudge just a fraction closer into his chin.

"I love you," she muttered.

They remained like that, sitting together in the middle of her little bed, for a very protracted few seconds. Then, tremulously, as if she was working up a tremendous nerve to do so, he found her hand placed on his throat, working under the collar of his pyjamas. He let it lie there before doing anything else, making sure that she wasn't going to change her mind. Then he bowed his head and kissed her. She seemed to catch on that it was easier the way it was before, and they fell backwards, arms around each other, kissing really quite animatedly all the while.

And the next thing he knew, she had undone the buttons of his pyjama shirt and was easing it away from his shoulders.

"Elsie?"

"Mm?"

"Who's in the next room?"

"No one," she replied, "Miss O'Brien's had to share with Mrs Patmore so we can air clothes next to the hot water tank."

They were actually going to do this, weren't they?- he thought for as long as he was able to concentrate. Her lips had left his and were now lingering on his chest. He felt his breath quicken. Peripherally, he wished that his thirty-year-old self could have looked into the future and seen this. He could have easily endured the lonely nights, had he known that this was what lay ahead of him. This, his younger self's dearest wish; lying in Elsie Hughes' bed, her bearing down over him, smiling gently.

He took the chance to catch her off guard, rolling them over so he could lie over her instead. He was damned if he was about to let her drive him to distraction like this; he needed his chance to show her just what he meant when he told her he loved her. He loved all of her, whatever her age happened to be.

Surprised as she was by this sudden reversal of roles, he saw her smile at him, a look that told him "Do you worst, then." Right, he fully intended too. Resting one of his hands at her hips, he kissed her gently. Then, slowly, he allowed his other hand to wander to her breast. He felt the tiniest gasp against his lips. Encouraged by this, he allowed his touch to grow more daring, then, undoing the buttons at the neck of her nightdress as far as they would go he nuzzled into the skin at her breastbone.

"Go on," he heard her whisper, "Please, Charles. I want you to."

Looking down, he saw her hand on the hem of her nightdress, lifting. He could not deny it, he had been wondering if he dared to do it himself. He took the linen from her hand.

"Go on," she repeated.

He looked at her in the flickering light from the oil lamp as the dress came away. With remarkable foresight, his statement had been spot on. Her shape was intensely womanly, completely bare as she was beneath that dress. Kneeling over her, he discarded the garment and bent down, scooping her into his arms and tight against him. Her legs spread readily and he felt the warmth of her brush against him through his remaining clothes. He could not help it; he groaned out loud.

Holding her tightly against his arms, they kissed passionately, both lying down side by side once again. At this rate he did not know how much of this he could take.

"Tell me what you need," he told her in her ear.

Unless he was very much mistaken, at the sound of the words, he felt her hips jolt ever so slightly. Drawing his head back, he saw she had her eyes shut, her breathing erratic.

"Touch me, Charles. Please."

He smiled against her mouth, giving her one last kiss before tracing his hands down her sides, moving downwards, his mouth at the skin on her ribs. He cradled her in his hand, pressing slightly against her groin, allowing her just a semblance of the pressure he knew she needed. She gasped at the feeling, hips jolting again.

"Charles..." she muttered warningly.

He smiled; though he could tease her all day, he needed to please her. Gently, he ran a single finger over her folds, more and more boldly as he progressed. Slipping one finger inside her, he found he had to wait a few moments, the noises she was making almost sending over the edge himself. God, how he loved this woman. He could do this, only this, all night, forever. Her hips rocked dangerously with the movement of his finger.

"Now, Charles."

The instruction was clear, there was only one thing left for him to do. He divested himself of his pyjama trousers, waiting for a second, hovering over her before entering her. He could never have imagined it would be like this. The way she spread her legs, asking for him, nearly drove him mad. He could not hold back any longer.

They lay there together, both gasping for air, getting used to the feeling of finally being together. Cautiously, he withdrew, as slowly as the constraints of his willpower would allow him to. Feeling her legs fasten themselves around him, he knew neither of them would keep this up for very long.

She cried as it was over. Mortal fear that he had hurt her struck right through him. But she smiled at him through the tears that were trailing down her cheeks. Still, he was uncertain.

"It's never been like that before," she told him, her voice hushed and uneven, "I didn't know it could be like that."

Kissing her forehead, her wrapped her up in his arms, pulling the blankets over them.

"Me neither. I love you."

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	11. Chapter 11

**M, again. I don't know what's got into me. **

Accustomed to waking earlier than was necessary, she woke up before he did. She lay, liking the soft heaviness of his arm over her stomach. It had been completely true what she had told him; she could never have guessed that it could be like that. She felt... there was no word for it; broken. But at the same time finally whole. It surprised her to think that she had been alive before this; it felt as if the world was only just starting.

Of course, she had had lovers in the past- and, she suspected, that knowledge made him rather uneasy- but now she questioned the term. Quick tumbles in meadows and stuffy affairs in the scullery after dark- she shuddered at this latter recollection- did not quite compare to this. He was her lover in the true sense of the word. And this was only after their first night together.

Now was the beginning of a new age of longing. Now that she knew this man, really knew the effect he could have on her, things were going to be so different. There would be no more of the aching longing to know him better- as she now realised she had done before- but only the endless longing to find themselves alone in each other's presence. So they could be together like this. They should have started this years ago, if only she'd seen it earlier. She ran her hands over his hair, his head resting on her chest.

When he woke up she was still stroking his hair, lulling herself into a calmness that she had not felt in years. She felt the weight of his head lift from her chest and she was almost disappointed, until he kissed her on the mouth. It was hard not to smile against his lips; waking up with him made her very happy.

"I could get used to the heating breaking down," he mumbled.

She huffed, pretending to be offended- grinning like an idiot.

"Are you implying that I'm only good as some kind of hot water bottle?" she demanded.

The look on his face told her exactly what she had hoped it would: no, and he would prove it to her if necessary. She glanced at the clock beside the extinguished oil lamp. Just about twenty minutes until they had to start getting into separate rooms. She raised her eyebrows at him, daring him to make his next move. Then she felt his hand flit gently between her legs and almost cried out in a mixture of surprise and delight.

"Charles!" she exclaimed under her breath, common sense pressing at a reluctant brain, but pressing none the less, "People will be getting up soon."

"Then you'll just have to be very quiet, then," he told her.

"But..."

His face was gone from beside hers. Then she felt his mouth on her, sucking at the skin about her hips and moving swiftly along the line he had traced the night before. She felt herself dampening under his mouth, under his tongue as he played with her.

"Charles..."

She didn't have clue what she meant to say to him, she didn't even know why she spoke out loud, only that if he stopped she would surely die. She gripped at the bed sheet with her fist, biting her lip in the vain attempt to remain silent, little moans occasionally escaping her lips. Nothing in the world had ever felt like this, she thought. And then she couldn't think; she couldn't think at all.

As they got dressed later, she thought he looked far too pleased with himself.

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	12. Chapter 12

**M, again. I will sort myself out soon, but I partly blame CrazyMaryT for practically asking for this!**

As butler and housekeeper there should have been nothing that thrilled them more than the news that a part of the house was functioning better than it had done before.

"Mrs Hughes, Mr Carson. The heating in our corridor has been fixed. It'll be working properly by tonight."

"Thank you, Anna."

They waited until she had gone before they looked at each other. Standing opposite each other in the doorway it was difficult to avoid eye contact, and when they finally exchanged a glance it was furtive and dismayed, though fortunately they could both see the irony of the situation.

"Well, I suppose it had to happen eventually," she conceded.

After a week of him sneaking into her room- convincing themselves all the while that they were doing nothing more than using their common sense and keeping warm-, he found that he had grown rather used to this routine. In fact, he had absolutely no wish whatever to break it. He nodded reluctantly.

"We should be pleased," he pointed out.

"We should. But-..." she trailed off; what she had meant to imply abundantly clear.

He smiled at that, at least she was as disappointed as he was. She was looking up at him rather shyly.

"I rather like, you know, our routine..."

"You don't say," he replied dryly.

Lost in apparent deliberation, she ignored his attempt loose attempt to wind her up and continued:

"Why don't we," she began with the air of someone hatching a definite plan, "Just pretend we didn't hear? Just for one more night?"

The expression on her face as she bargained with him really was quite adorable. He considered feigning sternness and reminding her that as housekeeper she really should set a better example, but found he just couldn't manage it. For one thing he was very conscious that she could say the same thing to him. She was smiling at him too now; it was more than likely she knew exactly what was going on inside his head. There was no point feigning anything to this woman.

"Go on, then," he replied, as if giving in to the suggestion reluctantly.

She shot him a triumphant smile over her shoulder as she moved off out of the doorway and down the corridor, assuming her usual stride and barking at poor Lily on the way- as if she hadn't, a couple of breaths ago, been organising a lovers' rendezvous. It was very likely that he was going to have to studiously avoid her in order to be able to think of anything else.

…**...**

In the week that he had come to her room, they had by no means made love every night, in fact on most they had simply thrown themselves under the covers and wrapped themselves around each other to sleep. He had noted with some satisfaction that he slept a lot better with her head tucked beneath his chin than without. But tonight, now that they did not know when they might get to do this again- surely they would, but when would they ever find the time? she might have said- they found that they could not keep their hands off each other. He smiled at the thought, one would have thought that they might have got past feeling like that by their age, but apparently not. They were really in love for the first time, that was what mattered.

"What are you smiling at?" she asked, catching sight of his expression in between undoing the buttons of his pyjamas at an impressive rate.

"Would you rather I did this with a straight face?" he asked, apparently seriously.

"It would be rather less disconcerting," she replied.

"Right," he told her indignantly, "You try doing this with a straight face."

"Doing what?"

He slipped the fastening of her nightdress open at the neck and dipped his face into her skin, kissing round the edge of her breast and tracing his tongue ever so faintly across the nipple. She gasped in surprise, raising her hips off the bed. He grinned wickedly.

"That's not fair," she told him, trying to control her breathing.

"No," he agreed, "It's not."

And without any further words he continued his assault on her, no mercy spared. He buried himself back into the valley between her breasts, planting kisses in the pale skin and feeling her hands press him firmly to her, her hands in his hair. Surely, love was not normally like this; he had never known anything to be like this. Taking one of her breasts in his hand he heard her moan softly and sought to mirror his action but found the confines of her nightdress did not allow him.

"Oh, just tear it off me," he heard her mutter through gritted teeth.

He smiled, not realising she was serious until he felt her own hands tugging at the neckline, utterly desperate. He hovered over her, astounded, amazed by what he had done to her. Forgetting about the dress for a second he just traced the outline of her breast over the cloth. She writhed under his touch. He felt the flesh at his groin tighten unmistakeably at the sound of her whimpering.

"Please," she moaned, her hips kicking uncontrollably under him, "Charles..."

She was frowning, frowning like she did when she was trying very hard to control... Could he make her? Just like this?

Shifting over her, he prised his knee in between her legs. She could only watch, helpless, a sheen of perspiration on her brow. His hands found their was back to her breasts, massaging firmly, and his mouth, licking over her hardened nipples. She was letting out soft shocked moans- unable to hold them back- driving him on. And as her moans grow louder and less restrained, he moved his knee upwards, riding up under her nightdress and pressed firmly against her sex. He heard her come before he felt it, the moisture permeating through his pyjama trousers. Letting out a cry she bucked hard against the mattress, hips moving frantically.

"Charles," he heard her sob in his ear, "Oh, Charles."

He could only hold her until she was still- worn out. And then there was only one thing that he knew for certain- his perception of everything in the world apart from it askew-: he could not go back to the old life after this. He could not go back to his lonely bed, knowing that this woman was across the corridor, wondering if she might be thinking of him. Yes, he had failed her in the past. Now was his chance to bring everything back, to make her happy, again and again. He would leave Downton, he would leave England to be able to sleep beside this woman every night. There was no going back now. Enough time had been thrown away.

"You're so beautiful," he whisper in her ear, twirling her hair around his finger, "You're wonderful, Elsie. I don't know what I've done to deserve you."

"Well," he heard her sniff in amusement beside his chin, "I'd say what you just did got you a long way."

He wrapped his arm around her waist, content to lie there for as long as she needed to recover. The way they lay one of his hands remained pressed against her chest; he could feel her heartbeat still pounding, and smiled in satisfaction.

"Elsie?"

"Yes?"

"Will you please marry me?"

He felt her shift a little in his arms. Only to find that when she was still again she had managed to wriggle a little closer to him.

"Yes."

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	13. Chapter 13

They lay, hours later, just holding each other. His had wrapped around her head, holding her to his chest, stroking her hair. This was what being engaged felt like. They were exhausted by now- her nightdress long ago discarded on the floor with, he noted with pride, a substantial rip down the front of it-, naked and mumbling words of love to each other as they drifted in and out of sleep.

"Charles?"

"Yes?"

"When can we get married?"

He smiled. Needless to say, he found her enthusiasm rather endearing.

"As soon as the vicar will let us into the church, if you like."

He felt her smile too.

"What about his Lordship?"

Though he was aware of the problems their employer could cause them by withholding his consent, it was not something he particularly wanted to dwell on at the moment.

"His Lordship doesn't keep the keys to the church," he replied.

He felt her move to sit up a little.

"His Lordship can turn you out of a job whenever he likes," she reminded him, "Or me."

"Then I will tactfully remind him that he is short enough of staff as it is," he told her, though thinking he would have to pluck up rather a lot of courage in order to do that.

He was relieved that she laughed softly at it, though.

"You're meant to tell me that you'd rather marry me than keep your job," she teased.

He looked down at her. She was watching him intently.

"But you already know that," he pointed out. By the way the look on her face changed, he was rather pleased to say that he had surprised her.

"Yes," she admitted after a pause, "I do know that."

They were quiet for a little while. He wondered if she might have gone back to sleep- by now it must have been very late, almost morning, in fact- but suddenly she spoke again.

"We would have been such wonderful parents," she whispered, "No," she insisted, feeling his hold tightening on her in anticipation of what was to come, warning her not to upset herself, "I need to talk about this, Charles. If I can just say it out loud, I think that maybe I'll be able to start forgetting about it, well, not forgetting. Letting it go."

He did not try to stop her talking, he had known for a while that something like this had to be said, ever since her confession many lifetimes ago that she'd have liked to have had a child. And if one thing needed healing about her, it was the unrequited yearning to have been a mother.

"If I say it aloud," she qualified, "We can forget about the time we wasted and never look back."

But still, though he acknowledged the conversation's necessity, he pressed his chin close to her forehead, nuzzling there to comfort them both. She latched her hands onto his arm around her neck, and waited.

"We could have lived in a little house on in the village," she began haltingly, "They'd have been just the right height- because you're tall and I'm small-, and they'd have had dark hair like both of us. Of course, knowing our luck, they'd have had my awful eyes-..."

"Your eyes are beautiful," he amended.

"-... my eyes." she sniffed- she was crying now- "And things wouldn't have always been easy. But we'd have loved them, loved them like mad, because they were ours. There, I've said it."

But there was still more, he thought.

"You'd named them, hadn't you?" he asked gently, his heart breaking because he knew she would nod even before she did.

"Yes."

He did not ask, he had the feeling that that fragment of her wonderful, beautiful vision she would want to keep private. Also, he did not think he could bear it if he knew. Biting his own lip, amid the foggy emotions threatening to engulf him, he focused only on Elsie, on his lover, and how her need for comfort was greater than his. He kissed the tear-stained cheeks under her eyes softly; kissing them better.

"We never look back now," he told her.

**The End.**

**But I might write an epilogue, I'm not sure yet. Please review if you have time, thank you so much for reading!**


	14. Chapter 14

**Epilogue**

It had been the longest night of most of their lives. Most of the men of the house crowded around the drawing room well into the early hours of the morning- quite forgetting that by proper standards they should have retired hours ago. The father-to-be sat silent with anxiety somewhere in the middle of the group, being served whiskey at intervals by Charles, who thought he himself was probably quite as worried about Lady Mary as Mr Crawley was. None of the women were to be found anywhere, they had each been delegated their own onerous task. Everyone sat, waiting for the arrival of the first baby to Downton since Lady Sybil had been born.

Finally the drawing room door opened, heads swivelling towards it rapidly. A very battered looking Lady Sybil emerged. During the course of the war, Charles knew she must have seen her fair share of pain as a nurse, but still she looked as if this experience had unsettled her. He prayed that that did not bode ill. But she smiled a rather weary smile and they all breathed a sigh of relief.

"A boy," she spoke directly to Matthew Crawley, "Very blue eyes. You can go up and see them, but Mrs Carson says you're to be as quiet as mice."

Charles smiled to himself; that sounded very like Elsie. His Lordship and Mr Crawley departed hastily to meet the new arrival, but Charles did not. It wouldn't be proper for him to go just yet. Perhaps tomorrow. Or later today, that was, he reminded himself. At the same time, the female servants seemed to be coming back downstairs and he hung around, waiting for Elsie.

She emerged looking quite as worn out as Lady Sybil had. She smiled when she saw him. Though there were people present and the Carsons were certainly not prone to overly public displays of their affection for one another, he wrapped his arm around her and kissed her on the top of the head. She looked exhausted and he was happy; he didn't really care if Daisy goggled at them. Arm in arm, they headed down to the basement.

"Mrs Crawley's crying," she informed him hazily, "I've never seen anyone so uncontrollable," she remarked, rather fondly.

"Did Lady Mary have a name in mind?" he asked her.

Elsie nodded but did not enlighten him as to what it was.

"Go on," he pressed.

"I don't think you'll quite believe me," she told him, "She's called him Charles."

He truthfully didn't know what to say to that.

"Surely that can't be proper," he finally managed, "Won't they want him to be named after Mr Crawley."

"That's what her Ladyship said. Lady Mary was quite adamant. She was always very fond of you when she was a little girl, and she couldn't stand to name the child Robert after her father."

Amid being fairly speechless, he noticed that she had a distant thoughtful look about her, more than just weariness about her.

"What are you thinking?" he wanted to know.

"Sheer force of coincidence," she replied, "If our son couldn't be named after you, at least theirs is."

He kissed her on the forehead and hugged her as they reached the bottom of the stairs. Things about them had an odd way of working out, but he for one had no objections to it.

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